Practised precision
Looking up he can see two white vapour trails etched into the hazy sky. He turns lazily in the bed, twisting so that he can see her still-sleeping form, her face pressed deep into the pillow, her neck arched against the clean white sheet. Then he rolls away gently, doesn’t want to disturb her as he stands by the bed, stretches and pads off towards the shower.
Steam needles him awake; he pulls on a grey tracksuit and slips downstairs. Flicks the kettle on with one hand while the other reaches up and pulls down a packet. Pours cereal from it onto the bowl he’d carefully set out last night, along with the spoon and mug. His free hand is already opening the door of the fridge, taking the milk and filling bowl and mug with practised precision. That’s what it takes, he’s always telling them. Practised precision, do it so often you don’t even think about it, just let it flow through you.
Five minutes, not a second longer, and he’s rinsing the bowl and mug carefully under the tap, stacking them against each other on the draining board. Timing, that’s something else he keeps trying to drum into them. You can’t beat the clock, work with it, be aware of the seconds running down to the whistle. Don’t waste a moment.
The door clicks quietly behind him; as he steps out there’s a moment of light-headedness, as if he can’t quite absorb the brightness of the sky. He shakes it off, puts it down to the sudden change in temperature from the warm house to the brisk autumn morning. Pushes it aside the same way he’s done all week, an annoyance, something he’ll have to get seen to but not yet, not today. Sets off at a trot along the road, his trainers pad, pad, padding their way against the paving stones.
Fifteen minutes along and his red T-shirt is damp with sweat, his chest heaving within it as he struggles with the last of the climb. The ground’s set on top of a hill, worth the hard work to reach it. Spread out below him the river glistens in the early morning like a young snake which has just shed its old dusty skin. The water sparkles as the sun catches it, the breeze gently ruffling the silver surface.
His face is small-featured, little indentations and ridges where eyes and nose find themselves in a landscape otherwise devoid of relief. Above a broad plain of a forehead is a squat forest of close-cropped hair, greying slightly and flecked in the sunlight with stabs of scrubby black. His upper torso is broad and big, rolling about an axis around his hips like one of those toys which keep returning upright as you push them over, laughing as they keep bobbing back. Below his legs seem small and stubby, not quite long enough to support his body and yet somehow they do.
Losing the match is not a big deal, he keeps telling himself. But he doesn’t believe that; for him it’s the whole deal. For weeks he’s lived with the fixture, rehearsing it in his head, imagining it playing out in so many different permutations. It’s why he’s been trying to keep up with them, rising early with them, stumbling sleepily into training sessions which take place while the day itself is only just waking and rubbing its eyes. He needs to be there, that’s what a good coach does, keep his players onside by being alongside them.
Now he watches them begin their training session. The first shuffling paces round the running track, muscles gradually warming, easing their way into a rhythm. Pulses rising, energy stores switching on in complex chemistry as they drive their pounding feet. Once, twice around the track, breath coming in easier gasps now, adrenaline opening channels, limbs asserting confident control.
It’s time to begin. He pulls a silver whistle from his pocket, one quick blast and a wave of his hand, pointing towards the pitch. The players spill on to the field they’ve just circled, its green surface decked with silver dewdrops sparkling in the swelling sunlight. The first football thuds on to the pitch, it’s followed by a rainstorm of others, white bouncing forms which spin off the surface in random directions. The players run alongside them like riders, expertly roping them to their feet, taming them to their will.
Passing practice. The ball edges gently in an arc, lands at the feet of another player a few metres away who repeats the movement as they swim up and down the field. There’s a stiffness about their movements at first, as if they are still scouring the radio waves to pick up a clear signal, then tuning in as it becomes stronger. Gradually catching the hidden rhythm in the music and letting that do the work. The passing becomes more accurate, faster and more fluid, the players spreading out across the pitch. Complex geometry, balls curving their way through the brightening light. Steam pumps from the panting mouths of the players as they weave their way up and down the pitch.
The whistle blows again and the players gather at the edge of the field. There’s a basket of tabards; the players dip into it like feeding birds and emerge as two teams, decked in red and white plumage. Spread themselves across the field, square up in practised positions ready for the fight.
A tap forward from the centre spot, almost a gentle nudge but it’s enough. The red team surges forward, like a cloak wrapping round the hunched shoulders of the white players as they wrinkle their way into a defensive shape. Gradually matching their chosen opponents the marking becomes tighter, the struggle for possession of the ball more fierce, the pace building as players narrow their focus, lose the periphery and see only the ball and their drive to push it closer to the goalmouth.
He’s enjoying this, they’re playing out what he’s tried to drum into them over these past months. It’s paying off, there’s a rhythm to their movement, a grace to the way the tide flows one way and the n another, washing up on opposing beaches. Running up and down the touchline he’s breathing more heavily, hearing the pounding in his head as he moves.
Suddenly the ball jags away on a new course, lets go the gentle rhythm which it’s been following, ebb and flow up and down the pitch. One of the players has surprised it, caught it unawares and is shimmying inside the expected line. He flicks a quick short pass to the man running fast on his left. The receiver doesn’t break stride; instead he rolls it forward to lay it up for his boot.
This time it’s a powerful kick, planned and targeted like a missile. It finds the man running on the right flank, landing just far enough in front of him to allow him to connect smoothly with it. He’s running fast, long strides hard for the defender to match, drawing other defenders towards him to try and halt his advance. That’s part of the plan, it’s working exactly as it should, they’ve bought the distraction wholesale. As the defenders converge on him he stops abruptly, swivels his hips and fires off the cross.
Our man on the touchline’s excited, he can feel his pulse racing now. there’s an inevitability to what comes next, he can’t control the low murmur swelling in his chest which will soon become a roar of delight.
Perfectly weighted the ball flies upwards then curves gracefully to land in the designated spot, the ‘x’ on the scruffy parchment map which the players have been poring over for so many weeks. The finale is almost an anti-climax, they’ve rehearsed it so often, the end is inevitable. Practised precision; the striker knows where the ball is going to be, this is what they’ve played out so often. He accelerates as he approaches, homing in on the white sphere and carefully strokes it towards the top corner of the goal. It slams against the netting, rolls back out at the keeper’s feet and the players surge forward in celebration.
The pounding noise in his ears and the roar in his chest collide in a paroxysm of joy. His legs buckle under him as he suddenly gasps for the breath that somehow won’t come back. The blur of bodies across the goalmouth turns dark, the brightness fades from the background sky. In his mind’s eye there’s a confused celebration; the big game should be next week yet somehow the winning goal has already happened. How else to explain the roar of the crowd swelling to a crescendo in his ears? He smiles proudly, acknowledges their cheers as his head nestles against the soft October grass.
